Hand in Hand
by thewriterwhocameinfromthecold
Summary: When Kentaro started working for Haruka, she figured he wouldn't last a week; but somehow she got used to having him around. And then it became something more...


Disclaimer: I do not own Love Hina, nor am I profiting from this writing.

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Haruka wondered when his calluses had begun to form. She remembered the pristine, almost feminine lily white palm she had shaken when Kentaro Sakata had first shown up at the door of his teahouse looking for work; the haughty expression on his face as he almost commanded rather than requested a job to pay his debts.

He won't last a week, she thought as they exchanged an ironic handshake, and she felt the silky smooth surface that had never known a day's hard work.

That was several months ago now; and he had changed as much as his hands. He no longer winced when the scalding spray of the dishwashing station got past his rubber gloves; no longer complained when he was forced to hoist pots and pans from one place to the next; no longer refused to work when he burned his hands on a scalding pan. He was still cut off from the family fund, and his debt still hung over him like an omen; but as he kept reminding her every time she asked if he wanted to quit, he was a Sakata. She knew the story pretty well by now: his grandfather had been taken by the army in '43 and forced to work in a munitions factory. When the Americans bombed the factory two years later, he and the other workers had survived by selling the facility's supply of fuel oil on the black market. His father had worked to support three generations of his family all crowded into a one room apartment from the time he was ten. He and his brothers had created the Sakata Group through hard work, sound planning, and knowing the difference between an opportunity and a fool's errand.

Kentaro – who had always known meat, hot food, and clean sheets – had never thought of money or fortune as something that could run out. Born of a generation that had never known war or real poverty, he had been unable to conceive of a situation that couldn't be overcome by his intelligence and charm, or his family's money. Then he had met his downfall when he had siphoned off his trust fund to form a record label with Naru Narusegawa as his headliner. Together, their star had risen to the top of popularity until Naru had been photographed punching her landlord Keitaro Urashima; and then just as quickly as fame had come, infamy slouched in to take its place. Kentaro had had no idea money could disappear so fast, but with nothing to sell and bills to pay, all he could do was sit back in horror at the great sucking sound as his last dollar in the world went to pay for the luxuries he had bought thinking that his payoff was just around the corner.

Until that moment, the term Lost Decade had just been something Kentaro had read about in the newspapers. Slow economic growth and diminishing job prospects meant nothing to someone in line to inherit a major conglomerate. Even when he had lost his business and his balance continued to bleed red, he had returned to his family with his head high; certain that he only had to ask in order to be rescued.

Instead, his father had met him at the front door with a suitcase. In squandering his privilege so thoughtlessly, he had lost the Mandate of Heaven. There would be no rescue, no more money. Broken and betrayed, Kentaro had raged before the gates of his estate for an hour, cursing his father and pleading with his mother to save him, to see sense and not put their precious boy through this hell; but there was no reprieve. Hoarse, cold, and hungry, he had taken up his suitcase and sought succour wherever he could find it.

When tragedy strikes, you learn who your friends are; and after crashing on couches and eating other people's food, unable to get a job – He laughed at that to this day. Imagine, a man smart enough to be accepted into Kyoto's premed program right out of high school unable to get a job – doors began to slam in his face until the only friends he could find were at Hinata House: the place that had been his downfall and would become his salvation. He still showed up for breakfast. Shinobu always slipped him a little extra, knowing how hard he was working. His greetings to Haruka were polite now rather than the cold scowls in the beginning. He did his job without backtalk, ate his dinner at the teahouse when the tips were good and dined on cup ramen when they weren't. To her surprise, he had become a fact of life. They were used to each other.

He locked the door as the last customer shuffled out into the street and said, "I'll take out the garbage."

She looked up from behind the counter where she was adding up the day's receipts. "Don't forget to separate…"

"The burnable from the non-burnable stuff, I know, I know." He bent down to pick up a slip paper by her feet. "You dropped this," he said, handing her the receipt. She reached over to take it from him, their palm touched. The smooth pampered flesh had become rough and bumpy like hers. He sauntered into the kitchen to grab some spare trash bags; she lit another cigarette and returned to her figures. When he was out of sight, she ran a finger over her own palm.

Haruka Urashima hated her hands. Big masculine mitts made rough by younger days digging up artefacts in the South Pacific, and the lifetime afterwards in her kitchen. She kept them in her pockets, bowed to most people, and only shook hands when she didn't care what people thought. When she and Seta had started dating, she walked arm in arm with him to keep from holding his hand. Beneath her impassive exterior, she still swooned with embarrassment when she recalled their first night together and he, as oblivious as ever, told her how rough her hands were.

But her hands had got her where she was now. Her hands had done the work that had bought her a stake in the teahouse, and then the teahouse entire. Her hands were why she had food to eat and a place to sleep. They were utterly tied to everything she had ever done.

She scratched at an itchy knuckle.

They were also one reason why she ate alone, slept alone, and worked alone…Until Kentaro had shown up.

A dull thud sounded at her elbow and she looked over at it.

"What's this?" she asked, holding up the small tin to him.

"Bee's wax," he said.

She looked at the tin in curiosity.

"You wash your hands over and over," he told her. "This'll take care of the itch and some of the roughness. I use it all the time."

She opened the tin, inhaled the sweet smell, and, with almost dainty care, spread the wax over her palms. "Thank you," she said, not knowing that else to say.

He shrugged and returned to the kitchen to tackle the last of the dishes.

"Here's your share of the tips," she told him later, when the last of the closing ritual was complete.

Despite himself, his eyes gleamed at the larger than usual stack of bills and coins. How long had it been since he'd tasted beef, one month, two? He looked so happy at it that, remembering his earlier kindness, she decided to cut him some slack.

"Have dinner with me." From her lips, the words sounded like a command, and he bristled. She might own him during the day, but the evening was his time. Seeing his building resistance, she tried to appear contrite and offered, "I'm buying."

All those months ago, she would have just been another face in the crowd. If, for some unfathomable reason, she'd asked him to dinner, he'd have laughed it off; but now a free meal from anyone was too good to pass up. They went down the street to a sukiyaki restaurant, and they sat across from each other, watching the pot boil.

"Give me one of those," he said, indicating her cigarette.

"You shouldn't smoke," she said, still handing him the pack.

He snorted as he accepted her lighter, a little of his original fire coming back. "Thank you, Miss Three Packs a Day."

She smirked as he concealed a cough, trying to look cool on the exhale. "Just what are you doing?"

He glowered at her, and then at length said, "Trying to blow smoke rings."

"Well, you're doing it all wrong." She inhaled into her throat, shifted her tongue back and blew a pristine O through her rounded lips.

Was he licking his lips?

She shook her head, and explained the complex and arcane ritual until he managed a half decent attempt. By then, the food was cooked and both their cigarettes had burned down to the filter. They ate in silence.

The next day in the teahouse, he was helping her move some things from the kitchen to her upstairs office.

"Who are they?" he asked, glancing at one of the photos on the desk.

"No one you know." She took back the frame, a picture of Seta, Catherine, and her on a dig for Maori relics in New Zealand, one month before Seta and Catherine got engaged.

"That was you?"

She followed his gaze to the thinner, more muscular Haruka of yesteryear whose hair reached down past her shoulders. "A long time ago."

He set down the box he had been carrying. "I like your hair that way," he said over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

She had been around too long to blush at a simple compliment; but his words did touch something inside her. After all, it was always nice to be noticed.

Later in the week, Yumi, her hairstylist smiled when she arrived for her monthly appointment. "Usual wash and cut?"

Haruka shook her head. "I'm thinking about letting it grow out. Can you suggest a way to style it?"

Yumi seemed even happier about the change than she was.

Her hair was more than halfway down her neck when spring came and she found Kentaro on the phone to, of all people, her nephew.

"Don't worry about the cost. No, really. I got the tickets from a guy who owes me a favour." He scoffed at something Keitaro said. "Come on. Even you can't study all the time. I thought you'd jump at the chance to get away from all that Estrogen for a few hours. All right, we'll meet at the train station at eleven o'clock."

"What's up?" she asked once he had hung up.

He jumped and shot her the guilty look of a man who knows he's been caught slacking on company time. When she gave him an open and expectant look, he relaxed and replied, "The Swallows are playing the Hanshin Tigers on Saturday. I got a couple tickets and thought Kei would like to see it."

"Since when are you and my nephew friends?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked down at his shoes and brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve. "He doesn't care that I can't buy Dom Perignon anymore. They've all been kind to me, despite…You know." He inhaled: a sharp hiss through his teeth. "Anyway, I thought Kei, could use a little man time."

Haruka thought about the pressure cooker of a house up the hill and could do naught but agree. "You call him Kei?" she wondered at the familiarity.

He shrugged. "People kept mixing up our names, so we call each other Kei and Ken when we hang out."

"I could drive you." The words were out before she even realised it.

He blinked.

"On Saturday," she stumbled on. "I could drive you two to Tokyo."

He cocked his head. "Saturday is your busiest day."

"I need to meet with our suppliers." The word 'our' catches her off guard even more than the quickness of the lie. When had they become a unit in her mind?

After a long look, he shrugged. "Sure, if you want."

After dropping the guys off at the stadium, Haruka decided to spend her unexpected holiday shopping. Her wardrobe hadn't gotten a good shake up in five years. She passed by the sweaters and jeans that had been her mainstay and looks at dresses, tank tops, and skirts. After all, summer was coming. Maybe a new bathing suit as well? She picked up a black two piece and added it with the red sundress. On the way to the checkout, she passed by the lingerie section. A mannequin with a pink negligee smiled down at her, and she turned on her heel. Work was usually enough to put that sort of thing from her mind, but seeing that negligee was enough to remind her how long it had been since she'd gotten a good shake up as well.

She dawdled near the check out, examining sunglasses she didn't want, casting guilty glances back at the section she had shunned until she groaned in disgust. Was she a grown up or not? She strode back with purpose and asked a salesgirl for the exact same negligee.

"Who the hell am I ever going to wear this for?" she asked herself in the fitting room, wanting to roll her eyes at the flimsy strip of lace, to laugh at herself for even entertaining buying something so unnecessary. Nevertheless, it made the trip back to Hinata with her, buried beneath the other purchases, at the bottom of the bag. After all, it never hurt to hope.

The negligee was still unused when she and the rest of Hinata House moved to the beach to run the summer teahouse, but she knew that the bikini was going to get a good breaking in the moment she set her eyes on the gorgeous dunes and the crashing waves. Kitsune stripped off her sundress to reveal a scanty bikini the moment her feet hit the sand. Haruka shook her head with a rueful chuckle as Kitsune and Su took off for the water; both giggling like little girls. Keitaro – uncertain where to look without getting clocked by Naru or Motoko for his trouble – decided to help Kentaro the designated pack mule. Haruka watched both boys make their way to run down café and tried to calculate how long the repairs would take. She knew that they ought to get to work right away, but then she looked over the other side and saw all the girls laughing and splashing each other in the surf. She smiled. Work could wait until tomorrow.

By the time she had changed into her bikini and found a place in the sun, Kentaro, realising that a flurry of commands weren't forthcoming, decided to get what enjoyment he could out of what was for him essentially a business trip. From her perch on the café's front patio, she saw him running across the dunes to play with the girls – Naru in particular of course.

He's wasting his time, she thought. Naru only had eyes for Keitaro, even if she was the only one who couldn't see it. Still, she realised as she took in Kentaro's slim muscular form, if he ever got rid of that bad attitude of his then he'd have no shortage of hopeful girls. She shook herself. What was she thinking? To her horror, she felt her face begin to burn and rebelled against it.

No, she thought, I refuse to blush over a teenager!

After all, it was natural for her eye to gravitate to the only guy on the trip who wasn't her relative. Fully justified, she pulled her sunglasses down her nose and settle in to indulge herself as he played tag with Su and Shinobu. Just for a little while, she promised herself.

She was still indulging herself by the time her hair was down past her shoulders again: staring at his ass while he put extra elbow grease into scrubbing a pan. She knew she ought to be working, but it was a slow day. Besides, what was wrong with a harmless thrill now and then?

"Is something the matter?"

She blinked, realising she'd been caught. "I just realised something," she said, thinking quickly. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"

He looked surprised, but nodded after a moment's consideration. "I guess so. That's why you were staring at me?"

"Was I?"

He scoffed. She ought to have known better than to play coy with him by now. "Yes. Yes you were."

"Well, I guess I'm just surprised you're still here," she said, deciding to play it off. "Most of my trainees don't stay this long."

He grabbed the washer nozzle and muttered something that sounded like "wonder why" under the din of the spray.

She smirked. "Smart ass. Get back to work."

He set the pan into the rack and moved onto the next. "I am working. It's you who's too busy ogling the help."

For a second, one horrible second, her stomach dropped and that cool façade she lived under threatened to crack. Could he really read her that well, she wondered as she grew nauseous with guilty humiliation.

Then he started laughing, and the relief, the joy at not being outted as some dirty old woman, was so palpable that the shame began to multiply. What the hell was wrong with her?

His laughter died away as he realised she wasn't sharing the joke. His eyes turned curious, suspicious as he asked her if she was all right.

Never one to stay on the defensive, she barked at him to get back to work and retreated to the safety of her tearoom, not daring to venture back except to call out orders. Her only contact with him for the rest of the day comes in the form of the bell he rings to let her know that orders are ready. Distance was enough to give her back her control.

After all, she reminded herself as she doled out cups of matcha and oolong, it was nothing more than a passing attraction. It was to be expected after all this time in close quarters.

This new façade lasted until New Years. After a good run of business on the week before Christmas, she surprised the hell out of him by letting him take the New Years weekend off. After spending New Years Day at temple with her nephew and his tenants (Naru was getting better, she noted. She had only launched Keitaro into space once that day.), she waved goodbye to them at the base of the hill and turned in the direction of her teahouse, intent on a quiet night at home.

The door was unlocked.

She froze in place. Could she have just forgotten to lock up? No, not a chance. Most women would have erred on the side of caution and gotten the police, just in case; but Haruka Urashima was not most women. She shoved the door open and stalked into her home, prepared to do battle.

"Anyone here?" she bellowed, daring any would-be thief to try, just try, to get by her.

"I'm in here." Kentaro's voiced wafted in from the kitchen.

For a second, she stood paralysed in the doorway as all the adrenaline summoned up for a life or death struggle slowed her realisation that there had never been any danger. Wanting to laugh at the anticlimactic nature of it all, she strode to the kitchen to find out why he had come back early.

She found him sitting on the ground staring at the dishwashing station that had become his second home.

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't look at her, just kept staring ahead.

"Weren't you going to visit with your family?"

He snorted and ran a palm over his face. "Funny story. They wouldn't see me," he said as if they were discussing the weather.

This was too much even for Haruka's cool disposition. "What?" she asked, squatting down to look him square in the face.

He laughed: an angry, self-hating groan. "Seems I'm still the black sheep, even after a year." His expression turned thoughtful. "I half expected it of my father, but I never thought my own mother would refuse me like this. They wouldn't even come to the door." He laughed again. "How's that for pathetic?"

She knew she ought to touch him, make some sort of connection; but he looked as vulnerable as she'd ever seen him, and she didn't trust herself one bit.

"I'm sorry," she said, having nothing else to say.

Neither of them said anything for a long while. She stared at him, him at the sink until at last he said, "I realised something when I was taking the train back, you know?"

She shifted forward. "What was that?"

For the first time since seeing him there, he turned to look at her. The movement was so sudden that she nearly fell backwards in surprise.

"You're all I've got," he said, looking at her with such sincerity it made her want to cry.

Then he reached out to take her hand, and the moment his fingers brushed the calluses on her palm, she jerked her hand away.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she told him as his face crumpled in hurt. "It's not you, really. I just…" She took a deep breath. "I have a thing about my hands, I guess."

He looked at her like she'd been taking about flying saucers.

"Never mind." She placed her hand in his. "I'm with you." Then she sat with him until he began to feel better, and tried to ignore the thrill of him running his thumb over her palm.

She hardly slept that night. Hot and sultry pictures of him running his hands over her naked body haunted her, suspending her in a waking nightmare as lust knotted and coiled in her stomach. At 3:30, she couldn't take it anymore, and her hand found its way under her waistband. She bit into her knuckle to muffle the threatening warbling screams as she gave herself what she'd been denying herself the moment she first started staring at his ass. Her hand was soaked, and she shivering by the time she finally fell asleep.

The next morning, she woke up tired of hiding. If someone had ever said to her that age was just a number, she'd have laughed them to scorn; but after coming that hard just from thinking about his touch, ten years mattered less and less. She wanted him, and that was that. She had never done things by halves before. Why start now?

She rescued the unused negligee from the bottom of her underwear drawer and, putting the pink garment under her regular clothes, called his apartment. He answered with a groggy groan, and she told him without preamble to get to the teahouse.

"What is it?" he asked her at the door. "You sounded weird."

Screwing up her courage, she stood toe to toe with him. "We've got to get something straight if you're going to stay here."

His eyes flashed with alarm. "What is it?"

"This." She gripped him by the lapels and kissed him hard on the lips.

He remained motionless, too shocked to kiss her back until she pulled away and fixed him with a searching gaze.

"I'm going upstairs," she said. "Either you're coming with me or you're not. So what's it going to be?" She turned on her heel and headed for the stairs. She mounted one step. Then another. Her stomach quivered, but she forced the fear of rejection from her mind as she kept to her course and climbed further.

"Wait." He grabbed her wrist, and she turned to face him, coming back down the stairs. He looked at with wide-eyed incredulity. "You don't even like me," he said.

She smirked, laying a hand on his chest. "Uh uh, but I'm going to hate you if you don't kiss me back."

He searched her face for any deception, any sign of joking; and she wanted to scream for him to take a damn hint. He leaned forward as if she were a deer he were afraid of spooking.

Enough was enough. "You know better than to keep me waiting," she said, seizing him by the collar and pulling him in for another kiss.

Later on, in bed, she laid her head on his chest as they passed a cigarette back and forth.

"Was this more than sex?" he asked after a long time.

In truth, she had no idea what it was. It wasn't love, at least she didn't think so; and yet…

"Yes." She rolled over to look at him. "For you too?"

He nodded, and passed her the cigarette.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Nothing," he replied, making no move to release her hand as he placed a kiss on each knuckle.

"What makes my hands so fascinating?"

"They're beautiful."

The line was so corny she nearly burst out laughing; but she forced herself to remember how young he was. It was to be expected.

"Give me a break," she said, turning away. "Beautiful? These callused mitts?"

"Of course." He sounded offended that she might doubt his sincerity.

"Why?"

He placed a finger on her chin and turned her to look at him again. "Of course. They belong to the person that saved me from myself."

Her sarcastic retort was silenced by his kiss, and then they made love again. When it was over, he fell asleep on her shoulder and she looked down at where their bodies entwined: their arms wrapped around each other, and their legs tangled together.

She let out a happy sigh. Maybe it wasn't love yet, but it didn't matter. After all, it had been worth the wait to get this far. What was a little more time when she had every day at work and every night in bed to figure it out?

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

If she could make him hardworking and he could make her gentle, then surely this couldn't be too hard. They'd figure it out. They always did.


End file.
